


Reclamation

by HannaGoesUp



Series: Pray Tell Me Sir (Whose Dog Are You?) [3]
Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Asexual Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Past Mind Control, Rape Aftermath, mentions of past sexual assault & torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3488075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannaGoesUp/pseuds/HannaGoesUp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It was Balem, wasn't it?" Jupiter lifts her head from the crook of Caine's shoulder and searches his face. "The guy you bit?" </p><p> In which Caine Wise has a boatload of emotional baggage, Jupiter Jones has had enough of her space family's shit, and there are some wounds time has done exactly jack to heal. Something of a fix-it fic for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3453116%22">Five Times Caine Wise Was a Good Dog (and One Time He Wasn't) </a>, but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Caine Wise met Seraphi Abrasax once. Only briefly, and only under very bad circumstances, but he’s never forgotten her. She was almost painfully beautiful, with long silver hair like falling water and skin like finely wrinkled silk, and she wore jeweled gowns that shimmered when she moved. 

Jupiter Jones, though, puts her predecessor so far to shame Caine can’t even begin to explain it. Jupiter moves like music, she laughs effortlessly, she is _luminous_. Caine has been captivated by her since the first moment he saw her, and passing time just makes him more and more painfully devoted. 

Seraphi looked right through Caine without seeing him, even when he knelt at her feet. Jupiter . . . 

Jupiter _sees_ him; looks at him like he is not just a man but her equal. She still does, even though in the months since they met Caine and several other people have tried to explain to her how wrong she is. 

He’s not fool enough to think he deserves to be seen that way. But it makes Jupiter furious and heartbroken in turns when anyone mentions that, so Caine has stopped. He’s more than content to do what makes her happy. To serve her with all the ferocious devotion his spliced soul possesses, for as long as she wants him.

She says it will be forever; uses words like _always_ as if she can really understand how long that is. And Caine wants, _oh_ how he wants to believe her. He knows she wouldn’t lie about it on purpose; there is no Abrasaxan cruelty in her, no cruelty of any kind. But he knows, too, that it’s a very cruel universe and Jupiter is only a very young Queen.

There are things he can’t say and doesn’t say, because of that. Not lies – gods, he would die before he’d betray her trust like that – but things he hopes she’ll never learn. He’d rather not see _always_ put to the test any sooner than it has to be. 

***

They’re on the roof of the house when she asks the question. The bees drone lazily around them, orbiting Jupiter just like everything else does, and the sun is just starting to set. Jupiter’s leaned against his side, tucked under the curve of one wing – she’s tactile, always leaning on him or slipping her hand into his or ruffling his hair, and he has no words for how good that contact feels, how safe and right it makes the world become. He hasn’t been touched very often by people who didn’t intend to hurt him.

Caine can tell she’s working up to asking him something – she gets fidgety when she’s curious -- but he isn’t prepared for the question that comes. 

"It was Balem, wasn't it?" Jupiter lifts her head from the crook of Caine's shoulder and searches his face. "The guy you bit?"  


Caine goes very, very still, like he’s trying to avoid being seen, and the wing that isn’t wrapped around Jupiter draws itself in. This is one of the things he had hoped she wouldn’t ask until later-- and Jupiter seems to realize that, because she shifts and twists until she can look at him closer, already tripping over her words.

“I’m sorry, if you don’t want to – “

“Yes.” Caine takes a breath that isn’t as steady as he’d like it to be, resolutely looking at the horizon so he doesn’t have to risk seeing her react badly to the words. “It was him.” 

Jupiter huffs out a breath. “Yeah. I, uh. Thought so. He had the, you know,” A gesture to her throat, meant he supposes to indicate the collar or Balem’s voice or both. “And I kind of wanted to tear his throat out, too, so I figure he probably brought it on himself.”

Caine can’t help the violent flinch that runs through him at that, and he grits out “He did,” still not looking at Jupiter.

“. . . Hey.” Instantly the attempt at lightheartedness dissolves, and Jupiter leans into him. There’s concern and contrition in her voice – for _him_ , for his feelings. “I’m sorry. That was . . . I really shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s . . .” _Fine_ is not exactly the truth. “Not your fault.”

Jupiter sighs and pulls one knee up to her chest, and Caine flinches. She thinks he’s mad at her for asking. Damn it. He closes his eyes and draws his wing close around her shoulders. “I can’t talk about it.”

Jupiter tenses. “I get that, Caine. Like I said, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, I mean . . .” Caine swallows. This is dangerous ground he’s treading into, and he wishes he could stop things here before they get more complicated, more painful. 

She cocks her head, and he can tell she’s frowning from the tone of her voice. “Caine?”

He sighs, looking back at the horizon. The sun is setting in a blaze of orange and gold, and the bees are slowing their droning as they head into the hives for the night. It’s beautiful and peaceful and far too perfect to last. “He . . . things happened. To me. Things I couldn’t . . .” He stumbles to a stop. "I can't talk about it.”

“You don’t have to.” Jupiter’s voice is so gentle, and she slips her arm through his and holds on to him. “It’s really okay.”

“No.” Caine takes a deep breath, fighting to get the words out. It isn’t okay, and has never been okay, and maybe it never will be. But if anyone in the world could make it that way, it would be her. “I mean. I can’t. There’s a cortical block.”  


Jupiter only needs a bare moment to process that, and her reply is full of horror. “In your _brain_? Caine, what the fuck.” 

“So I couldn’t tell anyone.” He can’t help the bitterness that creeps into his tone. “It was easier to say I didn’t remember anything, even attacking him, than to make a fool of myself trying to defend myself. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.”

“ _Jesus_ , Caine.” He can almost hear the wheels turning in her brain, wondering what exactly Balem did to him that would be so terrible it would need locking away like that – and terrible enough that Caine would try to kill him for it. 

Caine sighs, and it’s _his_ turn to lean into _her_. Seeking the comfort of his Queen, his Alpha. Despite everything, at least for now, he still has that much. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Jupiter is so small compared to him, but it doesn’t stop her from shifting around until she can wrap both arms around him in a fierce, protective embrace. “Seriously? You don’t have to _apologize_ to me for having your brain screwed with, Caine.” She says nothing for a long moment, just holds him, and then she asks very gently “. . . do you _want_ to talk about it?”

Caine shivers. He doesn’t think she’s asking rhetorically, and that scares the hell out of him. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Jupiter rubs his back between the wings, being careful not to hurt him. She always is. “Because. I’m not saying you have to. But you should have the choice, Caine, okay? Whatever happened, talking about it or not should be your decision. Not . . .”

She doesn’t say Balem’s name, and Caine can’t begin to say how grateful he is for that. He turns and buries his face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of safety and home and hope. “I’m not even sure it’s reversible, Your Majesty.”

Jupiter lifts her chin, and her tone manages to be lighthearted without making light of his situation. “I’m pretty sure my zillions of space-bucks can reverse anything. If you want.” 

Caine doesn’t say anything for a long, long time, and eventually he can’t find the words. He just nods into her shoulder. 

"Okay." Jupiter reaches up and cards her fingers through his hair. "It's okay. I'm going to fix this."

Caine nods again. He has no idea how she's going to do that, but he trusts her. He trusts her with everything.


	2. Chapter 2

Caine has always hated doctors; they all carry a sharp, astringent, medical smell on them that makes him more nervous than he cares to admit. Between that and the need for discretion in this particular medical matter, it takes about three weeks for Space Advocate Bob finds a surgeon who passes muster – not only with him but with Jupiter and Stinger. It takes another few days after that for the three of them to get offworld for the consultation; Jupiter has to make excuses to her family, and Stinger refuses to let the two of them go without him. 

They meet up with the surgeon on a hospital ship just beyond the orbit of Neptune. Doctor Dofleini is a cephalopod splice, with a hard, shiny beak and slotted eyes that appear too large in her otherwise human face. Caine can still smell the clinic on her, but she has a frank, disarming manner that helps counteract it. That, and the fact that Jupiter never leaves his side while Dofleini and her assistants scan his brain for diagnostic purposes, makes the conversation less daunting. 

It turns out it’s a lot more work to remove a cortical block than to put one in, Doctor Dofleini explains. Improper removal could make the block worse, or cause other complications. Even if all goes well, the recovery period is much longer than most modern medical procedures.

That makes Jupiter frown, and she slips her hand into Caine’s and squeezes gently. “How much longer?”

The surgeon holds her primary hands out in an expansive gesture. “As much as two weeks.”

Jupiter makes a shocked noise, and Caine can’t help but smile, just a bit. _Modern_ still means very different things to Jupiter than it does to the rest of them. Then he clears his throat. “What should I expect?” 

“A lack of balance. Headache. Some patients have a short period in which they find it difficult to speak.”

Stinger grunts. “Thought that was what we were trying to repair.” Stinger’s on edge about this project, Caine can tell; he’s been that way ever since Caine told him what was going on. He’d like to know why it’s bothering the older splice so much, but they haven’t had the chance to talk about it. 

Doctor Dofleini flushes, a faint emerald tinge of amusement shifting across her cheekbones. “After the brain has taken time to strengthen the repaired connections, Mister Wise will find both the general difficulty and the specific loss caused by the block resolved.” She turns her attention back to Caine. “You should also know that many patients find themselves with psychological difficulties, especially those who have been blocked as long as you have. You will be physically capable of speaking. It may still take time and effort before you will be able to.”

Caine takes a deep breath and squeezes Jupiter’s hand. He’s come too far to turn around now. 

“Let’s do it.” 

Dofleini inclines her head and gestures at the nearest console; the scanned image of Caine’s brain springs into holographic being, and she rotates and enlarges it to give them all a view of what needs done. 

The three of them react in the same instant; Jupiter gasps, Stinger curses, and Caine chokes, feeling instantly sick to his stomach. The cortical block is marked on the scan with a luminescent splash of white, initially no larger than a thumbnail – but it quickly resolves itself, as the image grows larger, into an unmistakable pattern.

The sigil is Balem Abrasax’s. 

Doctor Dofleini takes in their reactions, lavender blooming across her skin in chagrined apology. “My apologies. I thought you were aware.” 

“Aware of _what_?” Jupiter’s voice rises in the way Caine knows means she is furious and doing her best to keep it in check. “That Balem was sick enough to sign his name to something like this?”

Dofleini doesn’t exactly argue the point; her tone is conciliatory, but straightforward. “It’s not an uncommon practice, Your Majesty. A block like this one is typically placed to protect a secret. The sigil is added to indicate the proprietary nature of the information in the event of its release.”

There’s a long, tense silence while Jupiter processes that. Her expression tightens. “Proprietary. Meaning it belongs to who, with Balem dead?” 

The doctor sighs, looking apologetically at Caine. “To Your Majesty, should you choose to enforce that claim. And, technically, to the other surviving primaries of Balem Abrasax’s will, should they choose to press suit for access to it.”

Caine’s stomach does an impressive series of flips, and he pulls his hand out of Jupiter’s and turns abruptly for the exit, clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt. He plows out of the room and finds his way to the nearest washroom. He’s not sure until he gets there if he wants to vomit or punch the walls, and ends up doing both. At least he manages to make it to a basin first.

It’s Stinger who comes after him and finds him sitting with his back to the wall, scowling at his aching and bloodied knuckles. The older man doesn’t say anything, just puts his own back to the slick black tile and slides down until he’s seated at Caine’s side. He puts a hand on Caine’s shoulder and leaves it there, a warm familiar weight that actually manages to make Caine feel a little bit better. Only a little bit, though. 

“That _sonofabitch_.” Caine makes the words as eloquent as he possibly can, all his rage and hurt and bitterness for Balem Abrasax bleeding into every syllable. 

“Aye.” Stinger looks like he’d dearly like to kick someone’s ass right now. “Wish I’d helped you tear his throat out.”

Caine winces, just barely; it’s still a tender subject between the two of them, what Stinger suffered on his behalf, and he’s not in the best position to deal with it now. Stinger, however, just tightens his fingers on Caine’s shoulder. 

“I mean it.” His tone is firm, the tone he used to use for talking sense to his Skyjackers, once upon a time. “After this? No doubt in my mind the bastard deserved it.”

Caine frowns sideways at him, clenching his aching fist. “You don’t even know what happened.” The _yet_ hangs in the air, unspoken but very much there, because if Caine knows the surviving Abrasax siblings, it won’t be long before they decide to make what lurks in his head fair prey for anyone and everyone. 

“I don’t need to.” Stinger nods towards the door. “Neither does anyone else – Her Majesty’s making calls to that effect right now. We’ll do our damnedest to see to it nobody hears anything you don’t want to tell them, Caine. Including her and including me.” 

Caine sighs and drops his forehead to his hands. “Thank you.” 

Stinger nods and shifts his weight a bit. His voice softens. “. . . I’m thinking I owe you an apology.”

Cain raises his head just enough to favor him with a quizzical frown, feeling a little bit unnerved by the words. Stinger’s looking at him with a curious expression, half regret and half fury on his behalf. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t have.” 

“I knew something was wrong.” Stinger sighs. “Could all but smell it on you, towards the end. I made the mistake of letting it go when you wouldn’t tell me what it was. I owed you better than that. Maybe you wouldn’t have been able to say everything. But we could’ve worked out what you needed to say, if I’d done a better job of asking.” 

Caine’s shoulders droop, and he leans sideways into Stinger. He doesn’t know what to say – words never would’ve been his strong suit even without an Entitled’s mark carved into his brain – so he settles for just _being_ , trusting Stinger to read the forgiveness and trust and regret in his body language. The older splice shifts his arm and settles it around Caine. 

“I mean what I say, pup. You don’t have to tell us anything, until you’re ready. And if you never are, well, you’ve earned that right, too.”

Caine nods, feeling much more fragile than he’s comfortable feeling. “Thank you.” 

Stinger returns the nod, tightening his arm, and Caine takes a long few minutes to just sit there and draw strength from not being _alone_. Eventually he feels steady enough to straighten up, flexing his sore knuckles. He makes his voice as belligerent as he can, taking refuge in combativeness as he so often has before. 

“All right. Let’s get that motherfucker’s name out of my head.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Doctor Dofleini is an octopus splice, and no, I didn't bother to even be subtle with my naming convention there because IF CANON DIDN'T WHY SHOULD I?


	3. Chapter 3

Pain wakes him up, if "waking" is the word. Caine claws his way up out of unconsciousness with agonizing slowness, pain throbbing behind his eyes and across his temples like someone's smacked his skull with an iron bar. He doesn't know where he is, can't recognize the sounds or the feel of the room, and when he forces his eyes open it is much, much too dark. 

He's afraid, for a moment. Someone hurt him and his throat is dry and it's dark and . . .

And he can smell Jupiter and Stinger. His fear dissipates like a soap bubble bursting, and Caine lets his eyes drop closed again. He lets out a relieved noise that is meant to be a sigh but comes out more like a groan. Suns and stars, his head _hurts_.

Jupiter makes a very, very quiet hushing noise, cradling his cheek in one hand. Her voice is barely a whisper. "You're okay. We've got you. Everything went just fine. You need more medicine?"

 _Yes. Please._ He thinks, tries to say, feels his lips form the words. No sound happens.

"Okay." She kisses his forehead, and something mechanical _whirrhums_ at the side of the bed. The pain begins to ebb, and Jupiter strokes his hair, brushing the hurt away. "You just rest."

Caine does.

***

The first few days after that pass in a hazy blur that is mostly made of sleep and silence and darkness (he is going to be overly photosensitive for a while, he remembers someone saying, and the dimmed lights are for his benefit). He hates this, being so helpless and incompletely aware of what surrounds him -- it isn't _safe_ , there is no way to adequately plan for his circumstances when he can't see or analyze what's out there.

The only things that help are the scents. Not the medications and disinfectants and the metallic backdrop of the hospital; those make it worse. But the scents of Jupiter and Stinger, the ones that say _Pack_ and _home_ , those cut through all the other accumulated miseries of his current circumstances and make it safe for him to let his guard down a little. 

Caine's been in a lot of recovery rooms in his long, violent life. He's never had anyone there with him before. But this time is different; one of them is always there when he's awake, and from the smells he thinks they probably are when he's sleeping, too. They touch him and talk to him very, very quietly, ask what he needs and then help him get it. Sometimes he wakes to find Jupiter curled up in bed next to him, sleeping, and it makes something deep down inside of him _hurt_ with happiness. They promised they would take care of him for this, and they keep their word. He wants to tell them how much that means, how it makes this bearable, how sorry he is to be so needy and yet how deeply, achingly grateful he is, for _once_ , to have someone give him what he needs. 

But since anything more than the most basic speech is, for the time being, eluding him, he settles for quiet _Thank yous_ , enough of them that he half-worries they'll get sick of hearing them. 

The headache finally recedes on the fourth day, replaced by a mild but persistent dizziness that is just as bad in its own way. At least he can stand to have the lights on in the room again, and to carry on a conversation not conducted in whispers. "Carry on a conversation" is putting it somewhat generously; half of what he wants to say gets caught and snarled somewhere between his brain and his mouth, and he ends up communicating as much in frustrated growls and gestures as in words. Jupiter and Stinger and the medical staff are patient with it, but Caine is less patient with himself. He doesn't like how much the hesitation and half-talk reminds him of the state he was in before the surgery; it feels like the block has expanded rather than being removed, and that chafes him and frightens him. Even though he was told to expect this, right now it feels an awful lot like the surgery didn't do its job, and he's not sure how to deal with that if it's true. 

Not that he's entirely sure how he's going to deal with it if the surgery _did_ work, either. He's tried, in the very rare moments when he's been alone, to test his ability to speak around the block. He managed to whisper _Balem Abrasax_ before he started feeling panicky and sick -- not the familiar stopped-short feeling of the block but something more visceral and emotional, like touching an open wound. 

He only got as far as mouthing _Balem Abrasax raped --_ before he had to stop, overwhelmed and shaking. 

He couldn't make himself say it out loud. 

***

Space Advocate Bob (or, more accurately, Legal Attaché Bob, Advocate to Her Most Serene Majesty Jupiter Jones) looks as unruffled as he always does. He doesn't have especially good news to report, but he delivers it in the most upbeat way possible. If Caine weren't used to it by now, he'd want to chuck something through the android's holopresence. 

". . . so, unfortunately, we have exhausted all of Your Majesty's legal means to delay the filing of future motions to file suit for access to the proprietary information left by the late Balem Abrasax." He concludes primly. 

Jupiter rubs the spot between her eyebrows. "So just to make sure I'm getting this, Titus and Kalique don't actually know about the block yet."

"No, Your Majesty." Bob purses his lips. "There will be a standard notification according to Title 987,432 --"

"-- Delivered to their legal departments per standard procedures, got it." Jupiter sighs and tucks her legs under her on the couch; she's been sitting at Caine's side for most of the day. "And they get enough of those in an average month that they might never bother paying attention to this one. And if they do, they still have to file suit and argue in court that they deserve access to the information."

"Correct." The android is obviously pleased. "Your Majesty is, as always, an excellent listener in these matters." 

Caine's only half-watching Bob; most of his attention is on Jupiter, on the way her brow furrows when she's thinking. He knows her well enough to know that this is _worrying_ her -- this narrow chance that someone else might, in the future, have an opportunity to get at her. 

Well, no. To get at _him_. Not even in a way that poses a physical threat; the worst the surviving Abrasax siblings can do with the information, assuming they get it, is make it public. Which would be humiliating but not un-survivable. Yet Jupiter has, for the past few days, been treating this as the central problem in her universe. It's humbling in a way Caine's not sure he'd have words for even if words weren't his nemesis right now.

At last Jupiter shakes her head, straightening up in that way she does when something's been decided and the universe better damned well play ball if it knows what's good for it. "It's not good enough. I'm not willing to take the risk. Bob, please keep digging. I want to know how we keep this away from them for good." 

"Understood, Your Majesty." Bob bows stiffly and then pauses for a moment. He shifts his attention to Caine and his expression goes genuinely soft and sympathetic. "Mister Wise. I hope you will feel better soon."

Caine blinks at him and nods his acknowledgement, and the holopresence fizzes out of existence. Jupiter leans against him with a sigh, and Caine automatically shifts his wing to settle it around her shoulders. They've moved from a standard recovery room to a suite more befitting her station, one more comfortable and carefully shielded, and nothing can get at them here. But he still, now that he's no longer confined to a single bed in a darkened room, has the instinctive desire to protect her with everything that's in him -- dizzy and halting as that everything may be. 

"You. Shouldn't worry. About it." The sentence takes a hell of a lot more work than it should, but hey, it's a full sentence and is therefore progress. 

Jupiter shakes her head and leans up to kiss his temple. "This is important, Caine. _You're_ important. And I'm not going to let my asshole space relatives use something my dead asshole space relative did to you against you, all right? Not happening, not ever." She cradles his cheek in her hand and he leans into the touch, feeling warm and safe and _right_. "You're always keeping me safe. Let me return the favor, okay?"

Caine wonders if the lightheaded, breathless way the words hit him is something he could blame on side effects. Probably not, but he doesn't mind. It turns out to be the easiest thing in the world to agree, when she puts it like that. "Okay." 

***

_Balem Abrasax is touching him._

_He’s shirtless and his arms are shackled at his sides, and though he doesn’t recognize the room he recognizes the smells, blood and fear and hurt and hopelessness, and Balem Abrasax is touching him. Over and over, hands running through his hair, over his face, sliding down his arms, caressing his back and his belly and his wings._

_Caine is shaking all over, terrified and sick to his stomach. Part of his brain is screaming at him, demanding and disgusted, that he isn’t a scared kid anymore and that it hasn’t even gotten bad yet. Balem isn’t even hurting him or stripping him, just_ touching _, this is nothing compared to what it could be, he has no right to be so frightened and revolted._

_But he is, he is, and the touch won’t stop, he can’t form words to demand or bargain or beg, he can’t twist his way out of his bindings, he can’t do anything but take it. Balem’s hands are everywhere, possessive and polluting, and something in him snaps._

_He lunges at Balem’s throat, teeth bared in a hateful snarl --_

And sits bolt upright in bed with such force that it makes his head spin and his stomach churn. Caine doubles over, fighting the retching that rises up as his body reacts badly to the motion. 

“Caine?” Stinger’s in the doorway – wakened by the nightmare, no doubt, he’s a lighter sleeper than Jupiter is. Caine raises a hand to try and wave him off, but Stinger’s already crossed the room by the time he gets any words together. 

“Easy.” Stinger’s weight sinks onto the bed at his side, and it’s natural as anything to lean forward until Caine can bury his face in the older man’s shoulder, breathing deep and still trying not to be sick. “I’ve got you, pup. Easy.”

Caine shudders involuntarily, soaking up the warmth of a familiar scent that is not the echoes of the dream-reek still clinging to his mind. Stinger rests a hand on the back of his neck, very gently. “You want me to stay?” Stinger’s been making it easy on him, the lack of speech, by phrasing most everything as a yes-no question. 

Caine takes a shaky breath, relieved, and nods into the other man’s shoulder. 

“All right.” Stinger helps him ease back down into bed, mindful of his dizziness, and settles in at his side. “Get some rest, Caine, I’ll take the watch.” 

Caine lets himself relax a little at the words, and he reaches out and feels for Stinger’s wrist, wraps his fingers around it and holds on. He can still feel the sick, ugly remnants of the dream lurking around the edges of his mind, but he’s nowhere near sure of how to explain it to Stinger with his speech as stunted as it is. “Don’t let. Him touch me.” Is what he manages. 

Stinger doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t sound like he needs elaboration. He just sounds solid and sure of the answer. “I won’t.” 

Caine nods, and lets himself gradually fall back into a sleep that is blessedly dreamless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus I am a terrible person I can't even be straight-up nice in a fix-it fic _what is wrong with my brain._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, real talk, this chapter is where Caine actually talks about what happened to him in [Five Times etc. etc.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3453116) It's not especially graphic, but it is pretty intense. Please take care of yourselves and heed the tags.

“I must say, Mister Wise, you have recovered admirably.” Doctor Dofleini removes the diagnostic halo from his forehead and sets it aside, turning to examine the holographic representation of his brain that rotates lazily above her console. Caine is almost stupidly grateful to see that the livid splash of white that marked Balem’s sigil is gone. 

“Does that mean we can go home?” Caine’s sick of this place; the smells, the sounds, the constant low-level stress of being in recovery in unfamiliar territory. His nightmares, which for years have been blessedly sporadic, have come back with a distressing frequency over the past week, leaving him tense and preoccupied during the day. Jupiter and Stinger help just by being here, but Caine still feels too brittle, too raw. He wants this to be done with. 

The doctor makes a thoughtful noise, examines the minutiae of Caine’s brain laid out in glimmering light before her. “Neurologically, you are in perfect health.” Her voice is cool and gentle. “Psychologically, I can’t offer an expert opinion.”

Jupiter shifts at Caine’s side, very minutely, and he knows she’s thinking about his nightmares and the tension he’s been carrying in his waking self, about the looming threat of the Abrasax siblings and their respective legal departments. But she doesn’t say anything. She never speaks for him, not without being asked. 

Caine takes a deep breath. He isn’t stupid. He wants this to be over, he wants to be _okay_ , but it isn’t and he isn’t. Getting back to Earth would help, but it isn’t the real solution. “I’m still . . . having some difficulties with that part.” 

Dofleini nods without judgment and gestures at the scan, which dissolves in a shimmer of green and gold light. “We have some very excellent people on staff, both biological and AI. I would be happy to provide you with recommendations and a referral. I believe it’s typical for the first consultation to be held in person, but I’m sure you could arrange for subsequent treatment to be handled through holocasting.”

Caine nods, and Jupiter relaxes and slips her hand into his, squeezing gently. “All right.” He says. “Thank you.” 

He’s not okay. But he’s going to do what it takes to get there, whatever that ends up being. 

Jupiter keeps her fingers twined with his while Doctor Dofleini sends the requested information to Caine’s communicator and excuses herself to attend to another consultation. She leans into Caine’s side as they make their way back to their suite from the clinic, and he shifts an arm to wrap it around her shoulders. 

“I’m proud of you.” She says, and something warm and liquid and calm flows through Caine’s blood at the words. He doesn’t even know what she’s talking about, and something in the look he gives her must say as much, because she goes on “For asking for help. I know trusting people isn’t easy for you.” 

“I trust you. And Stinger.” It’s not exactly a direct response, he knows. Caine shrugs uncomfortably. “The last time I tried to handle this myself it . . . didn’t go well.” He means the attack, his fangs in Balem’s throat, but he means all the damage before that, too – the recklessness and the hurt, the walls between him and everyone else. “We didn’t do this for me to screw it up.”

“Hey.” Jupiter’s voice is fierce and affectionate. “You’re not gonna screw it up. You’re doing awesome, and don’t tell yourself different.” 

Caine loves that tone of her voice, but the reply he was going to make dies on his lips when he thumbs open the door to their suite. 

The floral arrangement is understated and tasteful, and Stinger is scowling at it with his arms crossed. Jupiter goes tense as the door slides shut behind them. “Kalique?”

“Naturally.” Stinger nods at the cerise blossoms twined in with the ivy. 

“Any message?” Caine realizes his fists are clenched, forces himself to relax them. 

“Just that she wishes you a swift recovery.” Stinger spits the words like they’re rancid in his mouth. 

Jupiter pulls away from Caine’s arm and crosses to grab the flowers. She marches them across the room to the trash disposal in the corner, gestures the appliance on, and chucks her burden into it with a will. There’s a brief sizzle of deatomization, and she turns back to them with a stony expression. “I need to make some calls.” 

She stalks into the next room, presumably to call Advocate Bob, and Caine runs his hands over his face, feeling suddenly weary. This is not the threat it feels like, he tells himself yet again. The worst they can do if they find out is make sure everyone else knows, too, and he can live with that. Balem humiliated him much worse than that, and he lived with it.

It’s haunting his nightmares to this day, but he lived. 

“We’ll figure this out.” Stinger says. He sounds sure of it.

“I know.” Caine trust them, he does. But he also knows it’s a cruel universe, and the Abrasax siblings are among the cruelest things in it when they have a mind to be. 

Caine sighs. Dwelling on the future isn’t going to do him any more good than dwelling on the past, he does know that. The only problem is, the present is too entangled with both of them for him to have much choice. 

One way or another, people are going to know what happened to him. Whether those people are the Abrasaxes, an as-yet-unknown doctor, or the whole damned Legion. The only decision that’s really in his hands is who he tells of his own volition.

He moves to the doorway of the second bedroom, waves off Stinger’s offer of company. He needs to think. 

***

When he finally emerges from the bedroom, the ship’s artificial night has fallen. The overhead lights are dimmed, the holoscreen in the room’s far wall set to show the far sweep of stars and space. Jupiter’s curled on the couch with a sheaf in her hands, and Stinger is seated at the suite’s dining table with a half-empty tumbler of beer. They both look up when Caine walks in, and Jupiter gets to her feet, crossing to cup his cheek in one hand.

“Are you okay?” And the marvel of it is, he knows she doesn’t mean what most people would by the question; she isn’t saying he _has_ to be okay. There’s so much unspoken in her words and eyes and body language; that she knows he’s hurt and wants to help him and isn’t afraid of or repulsed by his weakness.

He takes a breath that is shakier than he’d like and clasps his fingers around hers. “I’ve been thinking.” He looks up at Stinger, who is watching the both of them with grave eyes. “I want to tell you. What happened to me. What he did.” He doesn’t say _Balem_ ; he’s not sure he’s going to be able to. But he knows he doesn’t need to.

Jupiter melts a little bit, but she nods. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah.” He lifts her hand and presses a kiss to the palm, then lets it go and moves to sit on the couch. He can feel the tension in the air, the weight of them listening, and he wishes he could feel less shaken than he does. “I’m sure.”

Caine shifts his wings, half-wraps them around himself, and trains his eyes on a spot on the floor in front of him. He can't bear to keep looking at Jupiter, or at Stinger, because he knows that seeing these people he loves, the people who love _him_ , hurting on his behalf while he talks will be too much and he is doing his gods-damned best to keep it together enough to get the words out without losing complete control of himself. 

"I was eighteen. The Legion sent me to serve in his household." He doesn't even try to hide the bitterness in his voice. "They sold me to him." 

He doesn't tell them every detail; it would take too long, and besides, Jupiter does not need the nightmares, Stinger does not need the impotent rage. But he tells them enough. How Balem used him, fucked him, humiliated him, hurt him. Every once in a while he glances up, catches a glimpse of Stinger's whitened knuckles and Jupiter's eyes bright with tears and fury, before he has to look away again. He tries to think of it as a story he is telling about somebody else, a lonely, broken boy without a home or a Pack, someone he isn't anymore. It doesn't really work.

He's not even that far into it before Jupiter's arms are around his shoulders, her face buried under the arc of one wing. She doesn't say anything, just holds him, and he thinks the tremor is her at first -- until his arms come up on pure instinct to hold her back and he sees that it's his hands shaking. He clings to her, grounds himself in her scent, and thinks distantly that he should stop, he's said enough for them to have some sense of what happened. 

But the words keep pouring out of him, and any attempt he hoped to make at keeping himself detached from the telling is long since crumbled. He just keeps talking, more words than he thinks he's probably ever spoken uninterrupted like this. How things escalated as Balem grew bored, how soon it wasn't enough to just hurt him or rape him, how the Entitled used his own body and nature against him, made him beg for things that made him sick and soiled. How he twisted Caine's need for _belonging_ and turned it into another weapon to hurt him with. 

He can hear Stinger's wings buzzing from across the room, a livid, dangerous sound. But it's comforting, knowing that the anger is on his behalf, and when Stinger sinks onto the couch at his side and slips an arm around him, Caine leans into the touch, taking Jupiter with him. He's shaking and sick and feels like he can never be clean, but they're _here_ and they're not going to leave him. 

And they don't. Even when his voice starts to break when he talks about how the things Balem did broke him down inside, how hopeless and hurt and afraid he was, how much he hated himself. Even when he tells them about the aftermath, how he threw himself into war because he didn't want to contemplate living with Balem's mark in his brain. Even when he tells them about the attack, how the sight and smell and sound of Balem Abrasax was enough to let loose the feral animal under his surface, how he _enjoyed_ making Balem hurt and afraid like he’d been hurt and afraid.

He tells them the whole thing, and they don’t pull away. By the time he’s finished Caine is so bone-deep exhausted he can’t even hold himself upright, just slumps between the two of them like a drunkard. His face is wet with tears he doesn’t recall shedding, and there are tremors running through his back and shoulders, shaking his feathers. But the knot of sick tension in his stomach that’s been sitting there since last week is finally starting to ease, and he’s surrounded by scents that mean _safe_. 

Jupiter’s the first one who breaks the long silence after Caine finishes talking. She does it by leaning up and pressing her lips to his temple. “I’m so sorry, Caine.” She tightens her arms, and it is one of the million marvels that make up Jupiter Jones that she can make him feel so completely encircled and protected when she does that. “And I’m so proud of you for telling us.”

Caine goes limp – limper – and leans into her arms. “Thank you for listening.” The words are hoarse, and Stinger rises and comes back after a moment with a glass of water. Caine empties it without disentangling himself from Jupiter, and Stinger sets it on the floor before he retakes his place on Caine’s other side. 

“Easy,” He says quietly, adding an arm to the stronghold of arms around Caine’s shoulders. “We’ve got you.” 

Caine takes a shuddery breath and closes his eyes, letting them hold him. Letting them keep all the ugliness that just poured out of him at bay.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of wanted to intentionally push back against the trope of the Manly Dude Who Hates Shrinks, because I think Caine is smart enough to realize that he can't heal his own injuries physically and shouldn't try to do it mentally. And because as much as a loving support system is totally vital for someone who's been through the shit he has, that kind of trauma proooooobably also requires assistance from someone with some boots-on-the-ground experience. Just sayin'. 
> 
> Basically I really fucking love mental healthcare professionals and want to see them be more of a thing in fic. And you can totes do that without sacrificing angsty cuddlepiles for all!


End file.
